


A Lifetime Too Late

by friends_call_me_wobbly_hands



Series: Out Of Time [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: But No Boning, Dark Humor, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Graphic Violence, Salt, Sass, TBA - Freeform, Underfell, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, but it doesn't excuse their behaviour, fandom-divergent Underfell, i probably need a name for that AU, so it won't be as skelecentric as 11 days, sorry shippers only alphyne happening here, still a lot of bones there, they still love each other so, we wil be looking more into the way the bros treat each other so, will look more into the lives of other characters as well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-20 01:02:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12421788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friends_call_me_wobbly_hands/pseuds/friends_call_me_wobbly_hands
Summary: They never asked for this. However, this is what they receive. Sometimes it is a gift. Sometimes it is a curse. But when the future comes knocking at your door, you cannot make it go away. Even if you tell it a really good knock-knock joke.





	A Lifetime Too Late

“So”, Sans says, studying his fingers very attentively.

Papyrus fidgets with the hem of his sweater, equally mesmerized by his own hands. Such fine long joints, such precise craft. A perfect balance between strength and dexterity, mind you. And that is not easy to achieve. His father would be so proud of his creation if he was still alive.

The two of them _are_ still alive. That’s the problem.

The light from the windows in the living room doesn’t quite reach them, and even if it did, it would not make much of a difference since it is the lazy, dim, lifeless light of white fluorescent lamps that are meant to replace the sun and are not quite adequate for the job. But still, whatever reflections of that grey glow they get are not enough to light the place properly, and the candles are out. The lamp has run out of oil ages ago.

They stay in the cold, unlit kitchen – Sans at the table, sited, Papyrus with his back stuck to the doorhold, pressing his shoulderblades into the wood as if he was about to fall. Everything is grey, from their sweaters to the tiles, to the unwashed dishes, to the crumbs on the floor. Papyrus tries very hard not to look at the stains on the table. Even though part of the reason he does is because Sans’ figure is right there, as well.

They have no idea what to do with all this. And maybe the silence between them is a bit too heavy for an ordinary Tuesday morning, but that is what they have.

“So”, Sans says again, looking at the cinnamon bun Papyrus got him. (After the initial shock wore out, the younger brother rushed out to get Sans some food, scared by the thought that without sufficient nutrition the latter may fall down again. He raided a shop and even got him a burger from Grillby’s. Papyrus wonders what the fire monster must have thought when the skeleton burst inside like the world was ending and the only thing able to keep it intact was a combination of two buns, spicy sauce, meat and assorted pickles.) His fingers are laced together, and his elbows are at the table, and his stare is too heavy to travel up. Maybe, if he ate, it would be better. Rooms have that tendency to look more like home if someone is eating in them.

It hangs in the air, as obnoxious as a fart they are trying not to acknowledge. They have no idea what to do with themselves, too. It has been – what? Eleven days? Well, no. A little more than a month, actually. And yet it is too little, and they both feel like they went asleep with one person and woke up with another. They are like people on the train station who have already said their goodbyes and shook hands and kissed cheeks and made peace with the idea they were parting, but the train never came and now they sit in silence, unsteady, uneasy, unsure.

Papyrus toys with his own hands – click clack – and Sans squints, looking to the side.

“So”, he says once more and lets his voice trail out. “Um. Well. The lights are out.”

Now Papyrus squints as well.

“Yes.”

“Did something happen to the wires-”

“It is the debt”, Papyrus says in a bland voice, but his hands shiver. “I will pay for it.”

“…debt?”

“Nevermind. The company decided to charge me more for no real reason. It’s fine. I got it covered.”

“Whoa, what? Those assholes. Guess I will have to go an’ give them a nice talking to-”

“You don’t have to!” Papyrus almost pleads, clenching his sweater. The fabric would scream in pain if it could. “I can handle it myself just fine!”

He is met with a glare. “Papyrus. Trust me, you don’t want to be the one handling that. I mean, come on. You wouldn’t tell a date from a debt in there. Paperwork is a bunch of crap wrapped in numbers, anyway, so why don’t you just, you know, shut your goddamned mouth and let me deal with-”

Papyrus brings his hand down and smashes the doorhold with such force that a few splinters clatter on the floor.

“I _ALREADY_ DEALT WITH IT! AND I WAS PREPARED TO _KEEP_ DEALING WITH IT, IN CASE YOU DIDN’T _WAKE UP_!!!” he cries out, raising his voice to caps for the first time that morning. Sans flinches, and it is not because the scream wasn’t anticipated. “AND I DEALT WITH EVERYTHING WELL, _PERFECTLY_ WELL, LIKE I _HAVE_ BEEN – _ALL THE TIME_ – AND I DON’T NEED – I DON’T WANT – I – SO WHY DON’T _YOU_ SHUT UP _YOUR_ MOUTH AND FUCKING – I DON’T _KNOW_ – DO SOMETHING – _SOMETHING_ -”

He chokes and turns his head away, not looking at Sans. They both fall silent: Sans frozen mid-flinch, Papyrus again concentrating on the way his hands move. The side of his palm hurts. His fingers shake just a little.

The clock strikes two times in the living room. Light trails inside through the windows and lies down on everything halfheartedly, like it isn’t too thrilled to be here, either.

Sans makes that little movement, like he wants to stand up or reach out or something like that. His body struggles with it for a few seconds, and there is a new weird tension, an anticipation, unseen but obvious, as he is doing his little embarrassing dance at the table while Papyrus stands frozen at the door. But eventually something gives in and Sans slumps back into the chair, hastily scratching his neck, and Papyrus’ shoulders sag just a tad more.

“I could”, he starts, but that gets messy, too, and he scrambles that thought, and then he says, “It would be better”, and leaves it hanging, and settles on “It’s no big deal for me” a moment before Papyrus cuts him off with a “Nevermind.”

They shut up again. It is somehow worse this time, deeper and darker, even though it didn’t seem possible at the time.

“So”, Sans says, and his voice is suddenly painfully small and insecure.

Papyrus jerks away and blasts towards his room, disappearing with a bang of a door thrown shut. The “I need some space” is left hanging where his figure used to be, and the lack of his presence in the room stands out like an amputated limb.

Sans doesn’t move, for a minute or so. His fingers are still laced, his eyes stuck to some weirdly interesting scratch on the old table. Then he humps down completely and presses his forehead to the wood, closing his eyes.

He tries very hard not to hear the sounds coming from Papyrus’ room. He almost succeeds.


End file.
